


A Cold New Year

by Anarfea



Series: Shifting Seasons [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Break Up, Character Study, F/M, Infidelity, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:21:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22346341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarfea/pseuds/Anarfea
Summary: Greg's wife Stephanie goes to Dorset alone, and reflects on the state of their marriage.
Relationships: Greg Lestrade/Greg Lestrade's Wife
Series: Shifting Seasons [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1608547
Comments: 24
Kudos: 61





	A Cold New Year

**Author's Note:**

> So, I wrote a sequel to Fideles, which a lot of people asked for. It's from Stephanie's POV, which no one asked for. I think I will write a third fic from Mycroft's POV to round out the series.

Steph rolls over on the sofa, trying unsuccessfully to get comfortable. She hates this sofa. She and Greg both do. It’s a victorian chesterfield. Beautiful, but uncomfortable. Utterly impractical for sleeping on. But she promised she’d sleep on the sofa in the hopes that Greg would come home.

She drifts in and out of fitful sleep. When she dreams, she’s wandering through her grandmother’s house. Dust coats the furniture. Spiderwebs clog every corner. She tries to open the front door, but it’s locked. She bangs on the window. The glass panes rattle without sound. She screams, but that too, is silent. No one hears. She wakes in a cold sweat, shivering under the afghan she crocheted for Greg last Christmas.

She sits up, heart pounding, gathering the afghan around her shoulders. The house is eerily quiet. She wonders if Greg’s home, if he snuck in while she was sleeping and went upstairs. She stands up, wearing the afghan like a cloak, and walks into the kitchen, flips on the light and puts the kettle on.

Greg’s key turns in the lock. Relief floods her first, and then apprehension. Anxiety knots in her belly. She takes the box of PJ Tips down from the cabinet and drops the bag into her mug while the kettle boils.

Greg opens the front door and walks into the kitchen. He’s still wearing his coat and gloves. “You’re still up.”

She nods. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come home.”

“I very nearly didn’t. But I didn’t want to frighten you.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m going back out. I’m going to check into a hotel.”

Her heart sinks. “So late? You’re sure you can’t just stay upstairs?”

“Go to bed. Don’t do this martyr thing. Sleeping on that shit sofa.”

“I’m not trying to be a martyr. I just thought you might be uncomfortable sleeping with me.”

“Yeah, well, I am. Hence the hotel.”

“Are you leaving me?” the words tumble out before she can stop them.

He closes his eyes in an exasperated slow blink. “Steph.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot like that. I’m just…. I’m scared.”

“I don’t want to have this conversation at 3 AM on Christmas.”

“Okay.” She chews her lip. “But we will have this conversation sometime, right? Sometime soon?”

“I don’t feel like there’s anything left to talk about.”

“So you are leaving.”

“Can you not?”

“Okay. I’m sorry.”

“Goodnight, Steph.” Greg turns around stiffly, his shoulders slightly slumped. He walks back out the door.

She clutches the afghan at her throat and heads upstairs.

* * *

**Happy Christmas, beautiful! XOX**

Steph frowns at her phone. Darren. Fuck. Why the fuck did she sleep with Darren? She ignores it. Crawls back under the duvet, breathes in the warm air trapped beneath the cotton and down. Light streams in through the window, penetrating the blanket. Tears prickle her eyes. She will not cry. There’s no point in crying. She’s made her bed. And now she’s lying in it. Alone.

* * *

She decides to go to Dorset by herself. Checks into the cute airbnb, a spare bedroom in a cottage owned by adorable pensioners. She tells them Greg is a detective and that he’s had a work emergency and can’t come but encouraged her to take a solo holiday, to coos of sympathy.

On Boxing Day, she walks the jurassic coast, wind burning her cheeks and lifting tendrils of her hair around her shoulders under her knitted beanie. She finds a fossil of an ammonite. A perfect spiral, hardened into pyrite. Fools gold. She holds it in her mittened hands. It glints faintly in the winter sunlight.

What is Greg doing now? Working, probably. Picking up extra shifts. He always said that it was better to let the officers with families spend time with them.

“Aren’t I family?” She asked. “Aren’t we a family?”

“I mean people with kids.”

It hit her in the face like a slap. She wanted them. Desperately. She and Greg tried, at the beginning of their marriage. But it didn’t happen, not with Clomifene, and not even with IVF. Each of those three rounds had been more heartbreaking than the last.

And then she realized that she’d most likely be raising her child more or less alone, with Greg’s schedule. In the end, she decided it wasn’t meant to be.

She puts the ammonite in her pocket and walks back the way she came. Perhaps she and Greg, also, are not meant to be. She wants them to work, or at least she thinks she does, but Darren--might very well be the last straw. And maybe that was what she wanted. She was the one to leave, after all. Well, after Greg had found out about Brandon, he’d suggested she stay at her parents for a few days. But that had turned into a few weeks, and then into her getting her own place in Pimlico. She proved to herself she could live without him, which she hadn’t been certain of--they’d married straight out of uni and she’d never been on her own. And she was thinking she might like that, striking out on her own. Certainly it was nice to be able to go to bars and flirt and pull and not feel guilty.

Greg had called to say he missed her. That he’d forgiven her for Brandon and that he wanted to give things another shot. She’d been wary, but she’d missed Greg, too. Missed his easy smiles and tender touches and the way he called her ‘sweetheart.’ The way he used to call her sweetheart. He doesn’t, not anymore, not since she came home. Even though he was the one to ask her back, once she’d moved in her things he hardly seemed pleased to see her. He was distant. Cold. They haven’t had sex in the six months she's been home.

Then, Darren. She still hasn’t responded to his text. She has to break up with him if she wants to make things work with Greg. If Greg wants to make things work with her. Which is the real question. There’s been no text from Greg to wish her a happy Christmas, no message calling her beautiful or hateful or anything. She’d rather he tell her it’s over than be left in limbo. Perhaps that was why she slept with Darren--she’d been tired of being in limbo. 

But it’s only been a day. She needs to give Greg time. Time, more time. She’s given him so much of her time. Thirty two years of her life, the last six months of which she’s felt like she was on probation, trying to prove that she was good enough, worth keeping. No more. She’ll give him until the Dorset trip is done--New Year’s Eve. And then he needs to decide. Whether he’s in or out. The decision is his. If he really wants to make it work, she’ll break things off with Darren. Go to couples counseling. Whatever he wants. But if he’s done, she’s done. She’s so very tired. And cold. She shoves her hands deep in her pockets, closes her fingers around the ammonite, clutching it like a totem.

* * *

Greg’s overcoat is missing from the closet when she arrives home. As are his good shoes. The ones he wears to court. She bites her lip. She wants to call him. To say that she’s home. To ask if he will come home. Instead she goes upstairs to their bedroom, opens the wardrobe. Greg’s best suit is gone. He’s definitely not going to court after six on New Year’s Eve. But perhaps a party, or--her heart clenches--a date? No. She’s being paranoid. She’s the cheater, not Greg.

Cheater. It’s a label she’s come to terms with. She’s a cheater. If it had happened only once, maybe she could have said, “I made a mistake.” But it wasn’t a mistake. At first, with Brandon, it had been a desperate attempt to make Greg jealous. To get a reaction out of him. Any reaction. She’d felt invisible, like a ghost. She and Greg had devolved to roommates, living in proximity to one another but never having any meaningful interactions. Greg was up before her in the morning and worked late most nights. Steph cooked, or ordered takeaway. Greg did paperwork at the table, or talked about his cases, vented about the frustrations of the day. He always asked her how her day went, but her days were mostly the same. She worked as an administrative support officer for the Refugee Council. While she believed in the organization’s mission, her tasks consisted mostly of minute taking, data entry, and ordering office supplies. It was not a glamorous or exciting job. Certainly not the kind that made for good dinner table conversation.

And so, Brandon. A work colleague, more fool her. And Greg had noticed, but he wasn’t jealous. He was hurt. And, he told her, disappointed. But not jealous. She told herself never again. But the months and months of rejection and loneliness wore her down. Having already done it once, it was easy to say yes a second time. To Darren. He worked out at her gym. Offered to spot her lifting weights. And then one thing led to another and then they were having a full blown affair.

When she’d been with Brandon, she’d wanted Greg to find out. With Darren, she kept it a secret. Went so far as to buy Greg the cologne Darren wore to keep Greg from smelling it on her. She wasn’t proud of that. And then he smelled it on her before he’d worn it and he found out anyway. Of course, he’d already been suspicious, having been tipped off by fucking Sherlock Holmes. Damn him. Why couldn’t he have minded his own bloody business for once?

She goes back downstairs. Greg is standing in the living room, still in his overcoat.

Her heart flies to her throat. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s fine.”

Greg sits down on the sofa.

Steph stands at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed.

“You wanted to talk. Christmas Eve. I wasn’t ready then. I am, now.”

“So, talk.”

“Why don’t you sit down.”

Her stomach churns. Nothing Greg is going to say is good if he’s asking her to sit down. She reluctantly sits beside him.

“Steph. We’ve been together a long time. And I love you. I think I’ll always love you. But I don’t trust you anymore. And I don’t think you respect me.”

“I do. I know it doesn’t seem that way. But I do.”

He presses his lips together. “It’s over, Steph. I want a divorce.”

The tears come so fast she chokes on them. It’s not a surprise, it isn’t, but it still hurts. She brings her hand to her mouth, stifling a sob.

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to hurt you.”

She wants to say, _so don’t_ , but she doesn’t. She will not beg. She’d promised herself it was his decision and he’s made it. She wipes her tears. “I didn’t want to hurt you, either,” she says. “But I did, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“I hurt you, too. I realize that now, how distant I was. I still hadn’t forgiven you, and I shouldn’t have asked you to move back home if I hadn’t. That was my mistake.”

She nods.

“These past six months were a mistake. I should have let you go. When you moved out. That would have been the right thing.”

“Why’d you ask me to come home?”

“I missed you. You’ve been my companion for so long and when you were gone I missed you. But when you came back, it wasn’t the same.”

“Is there someone else?”

“No. But I’d like there to be. I don’t think it’s too late to start over. For either of us.”

She laughs. It’s bitter and hysterical. “There’s someone else. Fucking hypocrite.”

Greg pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fine. I had an opportunity to cheat. Christmas Eve. I didn’t. But I wanted to. And now I want to see where it goes.”

“Who is she? Is it someone I know?”

“No. No one you know. And it’s a he.”

“Oh.” It isn’t like she’s forgotten that Greg’s bi. She teases him every once and a while, asks him if he thinks this or that bloke is fit sometimes, when they’re alone. But it’s never crossed her mind that Greg might leave her for a man. And now he is.

Well. If she’s honest with herself, she knows it’s more complicated than that. Greg is leaving her because of Darren. And Brandon. And because of the heavy silence that’s hung between them for six months. But the final straw wasn’t Darren, it’s some man she doesn’t know. A man Greg wants to sleep with. To see where things go. Steph had slept with Brandon for attention, and Darren for affection. But she never saw a future with either of them. She hadn’t actually been pursuing a future separate from Greg. She knows it’s unfair for her to be angry, but she is. At Greg, at herself, at this mystery man.

“Are you seeing him tonight?” she asks. “Is that why you took your good suit and shoes?”

“I don’t know.”

“Wow. You sure didn’t take long to move on.”

“Steph.”

“I know. I’ve no right to be upset. I just ….” 

“No, I get it. I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to hide it. I just didn’t want to hurt you.”

“If you didn’t want to hurt me, you shouldn’t have told me you were leaving me for a man.”

“I’m not. Look, I don’t even know--he doesn’t do… relationships. But you asked if there was someone else and I didn’t want to lie to you.”

“Well, maybe you should have.”

“I respect you too much.”

“You don’t love me enough.”

“No. I don’t.”

It stings. She waits a few moments, letting that sink in. Greg doesn’t love her. No, he said he still loved her, would always love her. But it’s not enough. “I won’t contest it. The divorce.”

He presses his lips together. “Thank you. And I don’t want any of your money. That’s not why I married you.”

“Don’t be daft, Greg. I want to be fair to you. Besides, you’re the wronged party.”

“You know you don’t have to prove fault anymore, right? You just claim the marriage has ‘irretrievably broken down.’”

“And that’s where we are. Irretrievably broken down.”

“I think so. Yeah.”

She sighs. A headache blooms behind her eyes. “Then maybe you should go back to the hotel.”

“I will. Tonight. But I can’t afford it much longer.”

“I know. I’ll get a place.”

“You did that last time. I can do it this time.”

“I couldn’t live in this place even if I wanted to.” She could afford to buy Greg out. But she can’t imagine being in this house alone.

He takes her hand. “Steph. Thank you for being… reasonable. And for the good times we had.”

She nods. Her throat burns. She wants Greg to pull her into his arms and stroke her hair. She squeezes his fingers.

His lips press into a tight line. Then he presses them to her forehead. “I’m sorry,” he says again, “that things turned out like this.”

She clasps him tight. For decades now, Greg has been her source of comfort. Right now he’s also her source of pain. But she has no one else to cling to. He’s stiff in her arms, but folds his around her. Gingerly, he pats her hair. Tears stream down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry, too,” she says. And she is. She’s so sorry that she’s fucked up everything and now she’s lost him.

Greg squeezes her, then lets go, stands in a slow, shuffling way that reminds her that they’re not young anymore. Greg said it’s not too late to start over. But she can’t imagine a future with anyone else. Certainly not with Darren. But Greg is imagining a future with his mystery man. She lets out a sob, brings her hand to her face, bites it back.

“Call me if you need anything,” he says.

She nods, unable to speak.

He adjusts his scarf and walks out the door. His key turns in the lock as he leaves, and she has the stupid premonition she’s never going to see him again, even though she knows that’s not true.

She’s shaking. She grabs the afghan, clutches it around herself, still sobbing. Greg is gone.

Her phone chirps. Her heart sinks.

**Happy New Year, Beautiful! XOX**

She stares at it. Wipes her tears. Types with shaking fingers.

**It’s over, Darren. Greg found out. We’re getting a divorce. You should go back to Anna while you still can.**

Anna. Steph doesn’t know her. Has never really thought about her except to worry that Darren might slip and she might find out. Does Darren love Anna? She doesn’t know. Has never asked. She hopes he does. That he loves her and she loves him. That they can save their marriage.

**Don’t do this. I’m sorry about Greg. But we can work this out. Please.**

She blocks his number. It feels like a coward’s move, but she can’t talk to him right now. She is a coward. And a great many other things. A homewrecker. A slag. Greg has seen her for what she is, and he has left. 

But it’s not helping anyone to sit here on the couch and call herself names. She gets up, goes to the kitchen, puts the kettle on. Brews herself a cuppa. She warms her hands on the sides of the mug. She carries it back to the horrible sofa, switches the telly on, and prepares to ring in the cold new year alone.


End file.
